The Wedding

by Edith Layton

  “Another kiss wouldn’t be amiss,” Crispin said softly, as his fingers toyed with a stray curl of hair at the nape of her neck.

  “Or necessary, now that there’s no one to see it,” she said, hoping he’d deny it. When he didn’t speak, she did, too brightly. “I didn’t see Jerome, did you?”

  “He knew,” he said dismissively, and sighed. “Dulcie,” he said, giving the wayward curl a little tug to get her attention. “We’ll have to do this again and again until we’re sure Jerome and Harry get the idea firmly fixed in their little criminal minds. You didn’t mind my kisses in public, so why balk at them now? I didn’t attempt anything else, did I?”

  “We’ve had such a good day,” she said, staring down at her twisting fingers in her lap, trying to ignore the delicious chills his light touch on her neck caused her to feel. “Don’t ruin it now, please. You know why.” She paused and swallowed hard. “I like your kisses, my lord,” she finally said, looking up at him, “but I can’t afford to submit to them. I must not, and so I shall not.”

  He removed his hand from her hair and his arm from her shoulders. He had touched her and held her and breathed in her scent all day, and she’d responded to him. Now she was seated just inches away and he felt incomplete and alone. He ached to have her near again, and nearer still than that.

  He gazed at her and saw a young woman, moderately lovely, prettily dressed, yet with nothing so extravagantly beautiful about her as to account for how much he loved to look at her. As his eyes roved over her, his need to hold her close, her bare skin to his, almost overwhelmed him. He spoke for himself then.

  “It’s not a question of what you can afford or think wise, or even of what I think,” he said. “It’s a question of time. A day in April may be just as cold as one in November, but flowers will emerge from the earth on such a day and not in November, because it’s time. Things bloom at the right time, no matter the weather. This is our time, Dulcie. You feel it, as I do. So it’s not a matter of what we wish, but what we must. You’ll see.”

  “No. That’s so for flowers,” she said, “and maybe for those who don’t have to live another season. But not me. I shall have a life, I hope, beyond this time. I know what I can and cannot do, whatever the season, my lord.”

  He sat still, and then took her hands in his. “Please don’t call me that. I am Crispin,” he said softly. “At least call me Crispin, please.”

  *

  The viscount and viscountess paid two more visits to the village—once to buy ribbon, a second time to call on Granny Higgins, the oldest woman in the district. Each time, their loving behavior caused all observers to sigh with pleasure.

  The viscount, however, was as taut as a string, and found himself wandering his acres each afternoon, on or off his horse, trying to walk his frustration out. He decided he’d need an estate the size of all England to do that.

  The viscountess sat awake each night alone and lost, thinking that all she needed to do was wander next door to find a way to sleep easily again. Or perhaps she would never sleep easily again.

  They didn’t know what Jerome Snode thought, because they didn’t see him.

  “We have to beard him in his den,” Crispin said at breakfast, putting down a fork he’d been using to push his bacon around the plate.

  “Do you think that would be wise? Dulcie asked as she continued to draw little circles in her oatmeal with a spoon.

  He looked up to see her dressed in a new amber gown, and looked down at his plate again, as if the sight of the way the silk matched her eyes and enhanced her creamy skin had hurt his eyes. He addressed his egg instead, tapping it open.

  “Would you rather keep visiting the village, having me paw you and nibble you, touch you and fondle you on every visible bit of your skin, until he shows his nose?” he asked.

  She caught her breath at the thought.

  “No,” she lied in a small voice. She wouldn’t have argued with him whatever he’d said. His mood was increasingly bleak. There were no more cozy chats at night before the fire, no more long, meandering walks. As his public intimacies had grown warmer, Crispin himself had grown colder to her. She missed him.

  “Willie says that Snode is staying at the Hound and Hare, right in the heart of town,” Crispin said. “He stays in his room when we appear and comes out after we’ve gone. We’ll pay a call on him. It’s time. But I remind you,” he said, and looked up and, having met her eyes, was unable to look away again, “that we…that we must keep pretending to be lovers. Most especially now.”

  She nodded. And managed to look away from him, at last. They said no more then, or later, when a footman came to clear the table of two uneaten breakfasts.

  *

  Jerome Snode answered the tap on his door at once.

  “My dear Dulcie!” he said, bowing as though she were an empress, sweeping his outstretched arms down to either side of him, “or I should say, Viscountess. And your lordship. You do me great honor.”

  “I remind you we can do you a great deal more,” Crispin snapped as he studied the room. It was a low-ceilinged, tilt-floored inn room, bare except for bed and chest. Jerome’s few belongings were stuffed into an open bag on the floor.

  “Please,” Jerome said humbly, “won’t you come in?” The three of them crowded into the little room, with Dulcie’s skirts taking up half the space. Crispin had to lower his head, which instead of making him appear smaller made him seem to loom even more menacingly over Jerome.

  “What are you doing here, Snode?” Crispin demanded. “Don’t say you came for the country air, because there’s plenty of country between here and London to breathe in. You’re a long way from the Fleet, and there’s nothing of interest here but the old church. And us. That being so, why haven’t you been sketching the churchyard—or visiting us?”

  “I wouldn’t presume!” Jerome said with horror.

  “Then why are you here?”

  Jerome looked abashed, which immediately made Dulcie suspicious. Men like Jerome, she’d learned from long years with her father, were never ashamed of anything they did.

  “I thought I would…that is to say…now that Dulcie, ah, the viscountess, is in such good hands, and I have so little—it took every last penny to get me out of the Fleet—I wondered if…”

  “That won’t wash!” Dulcie snapped. “If you were going to ask me for money, you’d have done it right away. You wouldn’t have been one bit embarrassed about it either. You’re spying for Harry, aren’t you? Don’t bother to deny it.”

  “That Willie… ” Jerome growled, his eyes narrowing. “We did not learn about you from Willie,” Crispin said quickly.

  Jerome looked skeptical, but then his padded shoulders drooped. “It hardly matters,” he said. “I’m leaving. There’s nothing here for me—or for Harry. You’re right. Harry thought there’d be something for him in this, but you two are like April and May now, aren’t you? This is all a result of Harry’s efforts, and yet he can’t make a penny from it,” Jerome said more cheerfully, picking up his bag.

  “Wait,” Dulcie said suddenly, laying a hand on his sleeve. “What of my father? You were his friend—or said you were. Do you know where he is?”

  “Oh,” Jerome said, straightening, looking doubtful, “well, as to that, he hasn’t written to me, but I’ve heard… Still, I have an obligation to Harry, you see. Much as I admire you, my lady, I have some fears for my own safety. I can hardly… ”

  Crispin reached into his pocket and pulled out his purse. Jerome’s voice dwindled as he saw the coins Crispin was taking out. When five lay on Crispin’s palm, he offered them to Jerome, who looked at them uneasily. But he seemed to grow more uncomfortable as each new coin was added to the heap. When Crispin stopped adding coins, and Jerome still didn’t answer, Crispin began to close his hand.

  Jerome grabbed the coins. “Philip is not in Europe—he’s nowhere on the Continent,” he said briskly, “Harry knows that for a certainty. The word is that he’s shipped for
the Colonies, with a new name. Harry knows that too, but it hardly matters. He can’t reach him there anyway.”

  “Where in the Colonies?” Dulcie asked.

  “North America. The Bay Colony, likely,” Jerome said, as he gazed lovingly at the coins in his hand.

  “No, never. That can’t be my father,” Dulcie told Crispin, caught between disappointment and relief. “Father would never go to a savage place. He likes civilized company.”

  “He likes life,” Jerome said, “and they say some of the American colonies are not so primitive anymore. Moreover there’s the chance for a new life there. A new married life, even. It’s done often enough. Because, you know, my dear lady, your father can never wed here or on the Continent. But who is to say that a man in a new land, far over the seas, with a new name to call his own, can’t take a new wife?”

  “But that’s bigamy,” Dulcie gasped.

  “He could even have children,” Jerome added. “Philip isn’t an old man, you know. He often told me of his disappointment with his life, how he yearned for a wife, and sons—”

  “That’s enough,” Crispin said as he saw Dulcie grow pale. “We’ll leave you now, Snode, for good, we hope—for your own good, at least. Tell Harry we agree: there’s nothing for him here.”

  Seeing Crispin’s concern, how he put his arm around Dulcie to hold her tenderly as he led her from the room, Jerome didn’t doubt him for a moment.

  Crispin helped Dulcie into the coach, where she moved to the far end of the seat and gathered herself into a little knot. When he reached for her, she curled herself into a tighter ball, so he sat back. He didn’t press her to talk because he saw that the life had gone from her face when she heard what Jerome said. It was as though a light had been blown out. He didn’t dare touch her now. She seemed fragile, as though she was desperately holding herself together.

  He waited for her to speak, and after a while, she said, “You would have thought he’d write to me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe he will,” Crispin said.

  “Oh, really,” she said, and he had to smile at the wry wisdom in her voice, with all her sorrow.

  “I knew he wanted sons,” she said in falsely bright tones. “He mentioned it whenever he had too much to drink. And of course he detested Mama. I tried to be enough, but a daughter can’t make up for the lack of sons. That’s true, that’s entirely true.”

  “Marriage is a serious thing, Dulcie,” Crispin said carefully. “Unless his wife dies, a man gets only one try at it. Jerome’s right. If your father wants a new life, he has to leave this one, one way or another. I don’t say your father was right. In fact, we both know he was wrong. But he’s fortunate, in a way, that this is a widening world. Now he can make himself a new life, although it will mean he can never return to the old.

  “Don’t forget how this all began. Whatever new reasons Philip has now, he originally left for your sake. He loved you enough to disappear, taking your wedding papers with him for what he believed to be your own good. Try to see his side of it. He’s only trying to make something good from something wholly bad. Marriage is forever, Dulcie. It doesn’t matter if a man is happy or unhappy in it, it is a life sentence. And a hard one if a man is wretched in it. Your father knew that, too well.”

  And then she wept. Although she tried to cry silently, Crispin could see her shoulders shaking. He took her in his arms, holding her close and whispering words of comfort and consolation.

  “I’m so sorry, Dulcie love,” he said as he stroked the hair back from her damp and heated face. “He loves you. Truly he does. He did it all for you. Don’t weep. Hush, please don’t cry.”

  “Oh, Crispin,” she sobbed, “what have I done to you? I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.”

  His hand paused, his breath arrested. “What?” he asked dumbly.

  “Look what I’ve done to you,” she wept, her fingers convulsing on his coat. “I’ve taken away your life, haven’t I? Crispin,” she said suddenly, pulling back, holding him at arm’s length, “I have an idea: I’ll go too! I’ll go to the Colonies. I shall book passage at once. I can’t join Father—that would jeopardize his new name and position, even if I could find him.

  “But I can go under any name I choose,” she said, “and then you’ll be free. You’ll never see me again, I promise. I’ll be a world away, and no one will ever have to know. Don’t you see?” she asked, her eyes searching his. “It’s the only answer. You’ll be free.” She ran the back of her hand under her nose and sniffled defiantly. Her eyes were red, her face was streaming with tears, and the fragile skin beneath her eyes was puffy. Her lower lip trembled, and so did her chin, but she tried to smile. She looked terrible.

  He gently shook her until her hair tumbled from its pins. “Idiot,” he said. “Idiot, fool, mine.”

  And kissed her until she could only breathe his name, and not to beg him to let her go.

  They didn’t speak when they left the coach. Dulcie hurried up to her room and Crispin followed her.

  “First,” he said, when he entered her room, and she spun around, surprised to see him there, “some water, for your face.”

  Her maid rushed to do his bidding. When she returned with a basin and towel, Crispin dismissed her. Then as Dulcie sat in a chair near the window, he held her face up in one hand and washed it with the cloth. She giggled. He stopped and looked at her intently, wondering if hysterics were coming.

  “You’re like a mama cat, cleaning my face,” she explained. “Haven’t you seen the way they do it? Seriously and with concentration. You’re holding me down firmly with one paw while you do it. I expect to feel your rough tongue any minute.”

  “Not so rough,” he said, dropping the cloth in the basin and bringing his lips to hers.

  It was what she’d wanted, through all her pain, though she hadn’t known it. She’d thought kisses were only for pleasure or thrills; she hadn’t known they could ease pain. His mouth was comforting. Even the touch of his tongue was solace in a deeper way than she’d ever known. His shoulders were hard and strong, and she clung to them. They were her anchor in a lonely, painful world. They helped her keep her head high in the darkness that seemed to be swirling around her.

  And yet, when he groaned in his throat and lifted her from the chair to swing her up to her high bed, she felt suddenly light, and frightened, as though he had plucked her from safety to danger again.

  He knew it. He paused, one knee on the bed, and looked at her. “Is a kiss in a bed so much worse than one in a chair?” he asked. He was short of breath.

  “Yes,” she said, wide-eyed. “You know it is.”

  He drew himself up to sit beside her. He sat for a moment looking at her, his hand going to her hair to brush back a dislodged curl. His fine-featured face was intent as he studied her, and then he suddenly came to a decision.

  “Dulcie,” he said, drawing her to his chest so that she could hear his heart beating. “We are wed. That is so. Your father is gone and has taken our wedding papers with him. I lamented it at first. But now I see that that was foolish. We are married, Dulcie. It’s time you were my wife.”

  There was no getting around it, Crispin thought, reveling in how good she felt in his arms. They were married and would remain so, barring an act of God, or of Parliament. He could rail against his fate, but was powerless to change it. He couldn’t imagine being without her. How could he ignore her for a lifetime, when he couldn’t keep his hands off her for one day?

  He wanted her badly, she was adorable, and she belonged to him. If a thing couldn’t be changed, it had to be accepted. He would acknowledge Dulcie and make her his wife.

  “But, your lady… ” she said, and buried her face in his shirt, so she wouldn’t have to see the quick hurt that always sprang to his eyes when she mentioned Lady Charlotte.

  “She will be someone else’s wife,” he said after a pause. “You and I are married in the eyes of God and man, Dulcie. That is so, and we would be fools to deny it any longer.
”

  “If you mean to.... Dulcie said, looking anxiously at the bed.

  “I mean to,” he said.

  “Well, that’s not a simple thing,” she said nervously. “There could be a child from such a thing. And then there’d be no going back, even if my father appears and gives up the papers.”

  “It is a beautiful thing,” he said, his mouth on the back of her neck, his tongue tracing it.

  “I don’t know how,” Dulcie whispered with a shiver. “You don’t want me?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” she said. The late afternoon light showed a fine new growth of beard on his lean cheeks, outlining them like the strokes of an artist’s pencil. He looked weary and hungry and more handsome than she’d ever seen him. It distracted her for a moment, but only for a moment, for she knew what she had to tell him.

  “I cannot be a London lady, Crispin.”

  “You can’t spend my gold, order servants about, talk through the music at concerts, and dance all night?” he asked with a quizzical smile, holding the side of her face in one long hand as he gazed down at her.

  “I can’t flirt with other men or take lovers, and—and I won’t stand by and watch you take lovers!” she blurted. “No, I can’t do that,” she insisted bravely. “I just won’t, Crispin. So if you want a complacent wife, shear off now and we’ll work for a miracle, because I won’t share you, I won’t. Not ever. I couldn’t bear it. I’d make scenes and make your life miserable if I heard of any such thing, even though I know fine ladies don’t mind that sort of arrangement,” she added conscientiously.

  He remembered all too well a lady who didn’t mind it. “All right,” he said quietly, realizing it was time to tell Dulcie exactly what he would ask of her, or of any woman he took as his wife. “You’ll not have to share me, I promise you. Now. Let’s work for that miracle, shall we?” And kissed her long and hard, and earnestly.